


Red

by organabanana



Series: Femslash February 2021 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Harley Quinn (Comics)
Genre: Abusive Joker (DCU), F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2021, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Sex, blood (plenty)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/organabanana/pseuds/organabanana
Summary: A breakup, a healing process, color therapy at Arkham, and a series of life-changing realizations by Harley Quinn, with help from Poison Ivy.
Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Series: Femslash February 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139870
Comments: 28
Kudos: 198





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt #1 of Femslash February 2021: Red. Written around Issue 1 of Harleen: Black + White + Red by Stjepan Sejic which is an absolute masterpiece. I feel like this can be read even if you haven't read the comic but honestly it's super short and you should go read it because it is a work of art.

She doesn’t kill him.

She could kill him. That’s important to note. She _could_ kill him. But she chooses not to. And for once — for the first time since this whole nightmare started — she doesn’t do it for him. It’s not because she loves him so much she can’t bear to kill him. It’s not because she thinks maybe one day they’ll get things right. 

No. She doesn’t kill him because she doesn’t _want_ to kill him. She wants him gone but not dead. Well — she wouldn’t necessarily _mind_ if he happened to die. Have Bats forget his self-imposed limit and finally kill him. No, she wouldn’t mind. She just doesn’t want to kill him herself.

They stick with you, you know? The people you kill. Even if they deserve it. She would know. And she doesn’t want to carry his death around for the rest of her life. She just wants him gone.

So she stands there, bleeding and panting and struggling to catch her breath as she looks down at his unconscious body. That’s her blood on the knife by his hand. On his knuckles and splattered on his face, and you know what?

“You know what, Jay?” She says out loud, because why not? It’s not the first time her blood’s ended up all over him. Not the first time or the second or the tenth or the fifteenth. She kicks the knife away from him for good measure, even if the bleeding crack on his temple makes it clear he’s not gonna be getting up any time soon.

Still, though. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s tricked her. 

Wouldn’t be the first time she’s _let him_ trick her.

Because, you know what?

“I’m smarter than you think.”

So she stands there, Harley Quinn, with her blood-stained mallet and her blood-soaked harlequin costume, looking for all the world like the psychopath her Arkham file says she is. And — just look at her. She wouldn’t need to be a psychopath to kill him. To kill the man who turned her from a promising young psychologist into his peppy murderous sidekick. The man who’s kept her in a sadistic cycle of toxicity (both literal _and_ emotional) for all these years.

The man who — for fuck’s sakes — just tried to kill her with a butcher’s knife.

(Though that last one might have been self-defense, to be fair.)

What she’s getting at — and she’s getting at something, she swears, that’s why she hasn’t moved yet — is that even the most even-tempered, mentally stable, never-even-heard-of-Arkham woman would probably consider killing the man who put her through that. It’d feel empowering, even. 

But here’s the thing: Harley Quinn is smarter than most people think.

You don’t just forget all your training and your doctorates and your research just because you’ve spent several years on a murderous spree with your sadistic lover, you know?

So she knows she wasn’t a helpless damsel in mental distress being manipulated by the handsome criminal mastermind.

Oh, no.

She _chose_ to get involved with him. She chose to give into the want and the danger. She chose to keep going back for more because somehow, in some dark and twisted corner of her reptilian brain, the little moments when they were good were so amazing — so _perfect_ — that they made everything else worth it. She chose to pull a trigger and kill a good man for him.

And now she chooses not to kill a bad man.

For herself.

“And _that’s_ fucking empowering, Jay.”

***

She goes to Poison Ivy’s lair because… well, because where the hell else is she supposed to go? She can’t walk up to Gotham General’s ER and ask for some stitches and painkillers unless she wants to be back in Arkham within the hour. She doesn’t have her own place. 

But she has a friend. So here she is.

“Hey,” she says as soon as she walks into the greenhouse-slash-evil eco-terrorism lab, “door was open.”

No, it wasn’t. It’s just Harley knows the combination to get in. Didn’t steal it, either. Ivy volunteered it. Harley’s always kind of suspected there was some pity involved in that decision, but she’s not gonna be picky about the deep unspoken motives behind the actions of the single person in this God forsaken city that’s been consistently good to her. 

The second Harley steps further into the room and the gentle warmth of the grow lamps hits her, she sees Ivy’s face change from her usual unreadable near-smirk to sheer horror, and she knows she must look even worse than she thought she did. She knows for a fact it’s not easy to shock Pamela Isley.

She gives Ivy a couple seconds to try and come up with something to say, but words seem to fail her, so Harley decides to just cut to the chase.

Heh. _Cut_.

“I broke up with him.”

There’s a sort of unspoken rule between them that says his name is forbidden when it’s just them.

“Did he do all that?” Harley swears she can see the exact moment Ivy’s worry makes room for something that looks almost like rage. “Did he do that to you?”

Harley shrugs and manages a wink even if the cuts on the bridge of her nose sting when she does. “Should’ve seen the other guy.”

The joke falls flat, as expected — Harley’s pretty sure some of Ivy’s ferns have more developed senses of humor than Ivy herself — but Ivy finally manages to stand up and get moving, which is good. Harley kinda needs a hand. And medical attention.

“I won’t know how bad those really are until I’ve cleaned them up.” Ivy says, already opening the cabinet where she keeps all her medical supplies.

It’s funny because Harley’s been here a million times, and she’s been patched up by Ivy just as many times before — not always because of Jay, sometimes it’s one of the batlings getting frisky — but she never realized until now that Poison Ivy doesn’t need medical supplies.

Ivy can heal herself. She can synthesize her own meds. She keeps that cabinet stocked just for Harley. That’s friendship, right there. Right?

With a bottle of alcohol in one hand and a box of gauze in the other, Ivy makes her way back to Harley. But instead of getting to work right away, she stops and looks up and down Harley’s body. And for the first time, Harley looks down, too. At the blood-soaked stretchy fabric of her costume, at the gashes everywhere with cuts underneath. 

She’s a mess and a half, isn’t she?

“Let’s just—“ Ivy shakes her head and leaves the alcohol and gauze on the nearest flat surface. That won’t be enough to fix this. “Let’s just get you in the shower.”

The next minutes feel like she’s watching them from outside her body. Like she’s watching infamous eco-terrorist Poison Ivy, of all people, carefully peel off her costume and guide her into the shower stall through a television screen. Like it’s not really happening to her.

But it is. Happening.

So when Pamela Isley doesn’t even hesitate before walking into the stall right along with Harley? Harley feels that. She feels it when Ivy grabs the detachable shower head and turns on the water and tests it on her own skin, first, just to make sure it won’t be too hot or too rough on Harley’s. She feels the cool water washing over her skin, and the gentle touch of Ivy’s fingertips as they scrub at the dried blood, and she watches the water turn red as it swirls around her feet and down the drain.

And it’s a bit too much, you know?

This whole thing.

Almost killing the man she loves (still, even if she’s decided that’s not a good enough reason to stay with him), and breaking up with him for good, and the amazing contradiction that is a woman with poisonous skin touching Harley more gently than anyone ever has before.

It’s really no wonder she starts crying.

“This one will need stitches,” Pamela says, like she can’t hear Harley’s sobs or feel the way her body shakes. Because Harley’s already naked and bleeding and in pain, and Ivy pretending she doesn’t know she’s crying feels like being given a bit of her dignity back. And she fucking needs that right now. “Most aren’t too deep, though.”

Ivy keeps talking, narrating what she’s doing even if Harley knows for a fact she normally works in silence. But Ivy knows Harley needs it. So she talks about how the cuts on her face will probably leave some scars, and how the deep one by her bellybutton will need stitches, too. And when the water starts running clear because there’s no more blood to clean but Harley is still crying, Ivy starts all over again.

“This one,” she says, voice even and soothing in a way nothing has felt in years, “this one will need a couple stitches,” her fingertip gently taps the skin right next to the cut on Harley’s hip, and there’s something oddly heartwarming in the knowledge that that little tap would’ve killed anyone else in the world, but not Harley, “most aren’t too deep, though, Harl.”

***

She stays at Ivy’s for a couple nights at first, just because she has nowhere else to go. Then she stays for a week because you can’t really find a cute little one-bedroom rental in Gotham overnight when you’re in-between jobs as a psychotic murderess.

Doesn’t look great in applications, you know?

One week turns into two and then three and then suddenly it’s been three months and she’s pretty sure she’s living with Pam now. Which comes in handy, because she’s pretty sure she’s working with Pam now, too.

It’s funny because their criminal interests don’t seem to align at first sight. Harley mostly likes the chaos and the action, and Ivy just wants people to stop polluting the air. But they work well together. Ivy picks the targets and Harley the method, and it’s fun. It’s fun and it’s freeing and — listen, she knows she’s still killing people, okay? But it’s for a good reason, and she’s her own boss. It could be worse. She could’ve joined a pyramid scheme.

And living with Pam is nice. They get each other. They really do. Pam is hermetic, which makes Harley want to poke and prod and figure her out, but she respects Pam enough not to do it. And it goes both ways, too — in three months, Ivy hasn’t mentioned that first night even once.

It takes Harley three months, two weeks, and four days to realize why Pam always seems a bit surprised when Harley goes for a run or a walk or really any one-woman activity outside the lair and then comes back like she said she would.

It happens one night when Harley feels that familiar urge to blow off some steam by doing any kind of physical activity and leaves their home for a run around the park. As usual, when she comes back Ivy looks a little surprised. Like she was expecting her to not come back, for some reason. But then Harley notices something else. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of detail. The smallest, subtlest kind of sigh. 

Pam isn’t just surprised Harley’s back. She’s _relieved_.

And Harley knows why, of course. She knows Pam’s waiting for the other shoe to drop — for Harley to forget she’s better than the Harley from three months, two weeks, and four days ago and go back to him. 

“Y’know, Pammy,” Harley says, walking over to sit on the very edge of Pam’s desk, “I really like it here.”

She could’ve said more. She could’ve acknowledged the mammoth in the lair and point-blank tell Pam she’s not going back to him. But for some reason, that feels like intruding, somehow. It feels like telling Pam she’s noticed the sigh and the relief. And she figures her best friend deserves the same kind of privacy she gave Harley that first night.

“I figured. You know, since you won’t leave.”

Pam’s kidding. As it turns out, she does have a sense of humor — it just happens to be a bit subtler than what Harley’s used to. Most things about Pam are subtler than what Harley’s used to.

“I couldn’t do that to ya. You’d miss me way too much if I left.”

“Feel free to test that theory. I could use some quiet around here.”

Harley grins. Something wide and genuine in a way her smiles haven’t been for years. Pam wants her around. She doesn’t want the quiet. She wants Harley in her space, making noise and turning straightforward plans into complicated (and often dangerous) adventures. 

For a split second, a thought forms in her brain. Something — something she nearly manages to fully process, but not quite. Something about the reason why Pam wants her around. Why Harley doesn’t want to leave. Why she sometimes thinks about asking Ivy to touch her again, like that first night. For no reason.

But the thought is gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I’d break your heart, Pam-a-lamb.” Harley hops off the desk and winks at Ivy and doesn’t chase after the thought because she’s not feeling particularly adventurous tonight. “I’m a better friend than that.”

***

Six and a half weeks later, Harley realizes Ivy is in love with her.

She’d say she realizes she’s in love with Ivy, too, but she tries to be honest with herself and it’s more acknowledgment than realization at this point.

It doesn’t happen at the best of times. It could’ve happened at home, for one. That would’ve been convenient. Maybe even outside during a night walk or something. But no. Of course she has to have her big realization in the middle of breaking into a building that’s chock-full of guards ready to protect a CEO with appalling recycling habits. 

(Or whatever he actually does. All she knows is it pisses Pam off, and that’s enough for Harley to be down with murder.)

It happens when they’re up on the roof, waiting for the guard on the top floor to finish his round so they can sneak in and do their thing. They’re hiding in the shadows, standing close together even though there’s plenty of room and it’s not cold at all. It just feels better to be close, that’s all. 

“He’s gone,” Harley whispers as soon as he disappears into the elevator, “do your thing, Red.”

And so she does. Pam places her palm on the skylight they’ve been looking through, and a vine starts growing around her arm and toward the glass. It’s not the first time Harley’s seen Pam use the Green. Obviously. It’s not even the hundredth time. But for some reason, it looks particularly enthralling tonight.

“I love watching that,” she breathes out, even though she’s not sure why.

“Watching what?”

“That. You.” It’s only when she reaches over to place her fingertips against the growing vine that she realizes she’s never really touched Pam. She’s been _touched_ by Pam, of course. She’s prone to needing medical attention. But she’s never touched Pam. 

And it feels like kind of a waste. Since she’s immune to her poison and all.

So from the vine — which feels more alive than any plant she’s ever touched — Harley slides her fingertips down until she feels warm skin instead. And that’s when she sees it. Pam doesn’t move a single muscle — she doesn’t even look at her — but there’s suddenly a red rose blooming on the vine.

“Oh, _Pammy_.” 

Harley can’t stop smiling. Who cares if they’re about to kill an eco-unfriendly asshole and there are a million things that could go wrong? Well, she cares. Ivy cares, she’s sure. But this feels much more important than murdering some rich guy right now.

“Red, I lo—“

And _that’s_ when it happens. Listen, she’s never happy to see Bats. Never. But of all the moments when he could’ve showed up to surprise them before they can finish a job?

Right when she was about to confess her love to her best friend is about the worst possible time.

Maybe that’s why the whole thing doesn’t go as smoothly as it usually would. This happens at least twice a month, after all, so fighting Bats feels more like a dance than any sort of true fighting at this point. But she’s still rattled from the sheer enormity of what nearly happened, and when they’re about to escape Harley trips over her own feet and finds herself looking up at the big guy himself.

_Ugh._

On the bright side, she knows Bats won’t risk letting her go to go after Ivy as well, so, you know. Small victories, right?

“Don’t make me wait too long, Red!” she calls out, just because she knows it’ll piss him off. Pam doesn’t need Harley to tell her to get her out of Arkham as soon as possible. And tonight Harley’s figured out why.

***

 _“Stop grinning like an idiot and_ **_come on_ ** _!”_

“Thirteen days,” Harley says, tone mockingly offended even as she pants and struggles to catch her breath. They’re home, finally. Even if they found the lair, which they never would anyway, the Green would keep them out. “What took you so long, Ives?”

Ivy rolls her eyes. Thirteen days is nearly two months less than the time it took them to get out the last time they were locked up together, so it’s no wonder she knows right away that Harley’s not serious at all.

“You know I like a solid plan. I’m not much for winging it.”

“Yes, you’re boring, Pammy. I know.”

Ivy scoffs and sits down on the couch in the middle of the room. Well -- she collapses onto it, really, if Harley’s being honest. A quick glance around their home, with every surface covered in plans and maps and more clutter than Ivy would ever allow, lets her know her best friend’s probably spent the last thirteen days and nights planning her rescue.

If Harley could sprout a vine or two right now and make a couple roses bloom, she would.

“Are you all right?” Ivy looks at her, tired eyes studying her from head to toe. “How was it?”

Harley shrugs. “It was Arkham.” They’re both familiar enough with the place. Sometimes the person in charge is more sadistic, sometimes they have a more gentle approach. Either way, it’s gonna suck. “They have a new therapist. She does color therapy.”

Pam lets out a quiet chuckle. “Color therapy, huh.”

“Mhmm.” Harley tilts her head. Pam looks like she’s balancing on the edge between being awake and asleep. Like if Harley just kept her mouth shut for a couple seconds she’d completely pass out. “Would show me colors and ask what they made me feel.”

Should she feel bad for continuing the conversation? Maybe. Pammy _does_ look exhausted. It’s just Harley’s missed her for thirteen nights because of Bats, and before that for over four months because of her own obliviousness, and for years before because of reasons not worth thinking about.

So excuse her for feeling a bit greedy about their time together right now.

“Did it work?”

“Sure did, Pammy. I’m just here to pack up my shit and join the batgang.”

The sound that comes out of Ivy isn’t even a real chuckle. It’s a sort of hint that maybe under different circumstances she would’ve laughed, but right now the best she can do is a half-smile and a quasi-snicker.

Harley’s pretty sure she’s never loved her more.

“Don’t fall asleep yet, Red. We’re talkin’.”

“We’re _always_ talking, Harls.”

“Not for the last thirteen days, we haven’t.”

“C’mere,” Ivy pats the empty space next to her on the couch, “what do you want to talk about?”

It’s not the first time she’s sat next to Ivy on a couch, so she knows her gesture was meant to encourage Harley to sit somewhere on the couch but keeping a respectful distance. Personal space, and all that.

Of course, that was before. That’d feel downright ridiculous now. So she sits right next to Ivy, feeling the warmth of her skin through the rough fabric of grey Arkham sweatpants. 

“Wanna know what color they wanted to know about, Pammy?”

Harley decides the brighter green across the bridge of Ivy’s nose counts as a blush.

“Hmm…” even Pam’s hum sounds more alert than before, like she’s suddenly realized this isn’t just another rambling midnight conversation on the couch, “black?”

“For Bats? Nope.” Harley’s fingertips trace slow lines along Ivy’s fingers, across the back of her hand and towards her wrist. When she finally looks up, she realizes Ivy’s watching their hands, too. “Guess again.”

Ivy swallows and lets Harley wrap her fingers around a green wrist, moving Ivy’s hand to rest on Harley’s thigh.

“Blue?”

Harley giggles. “Blue,” she repeats, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to Ivy’s shoulder and smiling when it makes Ivy’s fingers flex and squeeze Harley’s thighs, “why would blue mean anything, Ive? Nothing’s blue.”

“Your eyes are blue.”

“Maybe they’ll ask _you_ about blue, then,” Harley shifts closer, chin resting on the spot she just kissed, “what does blue mean to you, Ms. Isley?”

Ivy stays silent for a handful of seconds, thumb mindlessly brushing against the Arkham sweatpants Harley suddenly wishes she’d taken off before sitting down.

“Chaos.” 

Harley rewards the teasing smirk on Ivy’s face with a kiss to her jaw. “But in a good way, right?”

“Hmm,” Ivy pretends to think, “sometimes.”

“ _Most_ times.”

Ivy doesn’t argue. Harley has a feeling the true answer is always, anyway, so this is meeting halfway.

“I’m good for ya, Ive,” Harley says, shifting closer so she can tuck red hair behind Pam’s ear and kiss the spot right by her earlobe, “and you’re _so_ good for me.”

“Harley--” It’s somewhere between a sigh and a breath but there’s an edge of something serious underneath. Something that makes her tense slightly with the fear of this becoming a whole conversation about things that make you sob in the shower or sigh with relief when someone gets home.

“Shh,” she whispers against Pam’s ear, “guess again.”

“ _Harley_.”

“Please, Pammy.”

A sigh.

“White.”

Harley shakes her head, letting her nose brush against Pam’s skin. She smells like freshly cut grass and jasmine and a field after the summer rain. When she takes in a deep breath, Ivy’s scent fills up her lungs and makes her wonder if she’ll ever be able to smell anything else.

She kinda hopes she won’t.

“You know I know you’re avoidin’ the obvious on purpose, yeah?”

Ivy turns her head and looks into Harley’s eyes for a second, and then two, and then she leans in and steals the air from Harley’s lungs.

Her lips taste like rosewater and something Harley can’t pinpoint. The kiss is slow and steady and _demanding_ , increasingly deep in the kind of unrushed way that makes Harley feel almost surprised when she suddenly finds herself straddling her best friend’s lap.

Ivy kisses her like a woman who’s been waiting for so long the concept of time doesn’t mean anything anymore. Like the wait has been so long the reward should be, too.

“Ive--” Harley pants, struggling to catch her breath when there’s no room for air in her lungs anymore. Ivy’s lips are flushed red, kiss-swollen and parted to let out warm puffs of air. “Pammy, I--”

“Green,” Pam says, voice low and quiet and as soft as her hands slipping under that ugly Arkham shirt. Her fingertips trace the scar by Harley’s belly button -- that needed a couple stitches a lifetime ago -- and keep climbing up, up, up until they’re grazing the underside of her breasts. Harley can’t breathe, but what a way to go. “Did they ask about green?”

Harley shakes her head, teeth catching her bottom lip as Ivy’s hands cover her breasts.

“They didn’t ask about _green_.” Pam says, one eyebrow cocked in question as if the pressure of her hands isn’t making Harley’s back arch to push pebbled nipples against Ivy’s palms. “Should I be offended they didn’t make the connection?”

The sound Harley makes was supposed to be a giggle, but it turns into a moan halfway through and honestly she doesn’t really care.

“Pammy…”

There’s something building up inside her -- something big and warm in her chest, pushing against her lungs and her heart. She’d say it’s love, but it’s too solid for that. Love is chaotic. It knocks your life off-kilter and makes you feel like you’re walking on a tightrope towards someone but the slightest gush of wind could push you off. Love hurts but it’s worth the pain. Love isn’t like this, steady and warm and solid and relentlessly _there_. That’s not what love is like.

Right?

“What is it?” Ivy’s voice is as soft as the brush of her thumb against Harley’s nipple. 

It’s like someone’s suddenly helped her off that tightrope and told her it was supposed to be a nice little path all along.

That it’s not supposed to be a lonely walk towards someone, either. Ivy’s already right here.

Harley opens her mouth to say it out loud -- to tell Ivy about this amazing discovery she’s just made -- but she changes her mind. Ivy knows, anyway.

“You still haven’t guessed the right color.”

Ivy smiles. 

“You said it was the obvious. I already guessed the obvious.”

As amazing as everything feels right now, Harley’s never been the best at delayed gratification, so she finds herself pulling one of Pam’s hands down and out from under her shirt to bring it up to her lips instead.

“The _other_ obvious, Ives,” Harley wraps her fingers around Ivy’s wrist, thumb pressing against the pulse point there as she watches Ivy’s pupils dilate with each fingertip Harley kisses, “the… metaphoric obvious.”

“The metapho--” Harley smirks when her lips wrap around Ivy’s middle finger and the breath catches in Ivy’s thoat “--rical obvious?”

“Mhmm,” her voice vibrates around Ivy’s finger before she lets it go with a wet ‘pop’, “c’mon, Pammy. Guess again.”

But Harley doesn’t think Ivy remembers her own name, let alone what they were talking about. Her fingers dig into the flesh of Harley’s breast and her eyes look so dark they may as well be black when Harley’s tongue licks a path up a second finger this time.

The only sounds she can hear are their labored breaths when she guides Pam’s hand down and under the waistband of her Arkham sweats, and then something halfway between a sigh and a moan when slick fingers slip between slicker lips.

Harley’s hands rest on Ivy’s shoulders, holding on for leverage as her hips begin a steady roll to the rhythm Ivy’s fingers set between her thighs.

“Keep going,” Ivy’s fingertips press up against her clit and Harley’s eyes flutter closed, hips rocking with more purpose than before, “don’t stop.”

Ivy leans forward, teeth gently nipping at the skin of Harley’s neck, and Harley swears if she didn’t know she was immune she’d think she’s under some kind of botanical spell. But no. No, this is just Ivy, as it turns out. Ivy finally thrusting two fingers inside her and making Harley move one of her hands to fist in soft, red hair.

She rides Ivy’s fingers with abandon, feeling Ivy’s tongue against her neck and Ivy’s hand on her breast and Ivy’s heartbeat somehow in her chest, and she’s amazed to realize she doesn’t feel like she could die for this. Like she could kill for this. Because she will never need to.

She feels like she could live for this, though. 

Has she never been in love before?

“Red.” Ivy’s voice comes muffled against Harley’s neck just as she shifts her hand to press her thumb against a swollen clit. 

“What.” Harley can’t even manage to make it a proper question. “Wh-- _Fuck_ , Ives.”

“Is it red?” Ivy’s panting, struggling to push the sound out like she can’t quite decide whether she wants to speak or keep doing whatever black magic she’s doing to Harley’s neck.

“Harder,” Harley’s fist tightens in Ivy’s hair, “so _close_.”

She doesn’t know what does it. It could be the flick of Pam’s thumb against her clit, or the feeling of Pam’s nails against her breast, or the hickey Pam’s leaving on Harley’s neck. Whatever it is, it makes Harley come with Ivy’s name on her lips and her muscles clenching around Ivy’s fingers until she collapses against Ivy’s solid frame.

“We’re not done yet,” Harley mumbles, shuddering slightly when an aftershock of pleasure jolts up her spine, “don’t you dare fall asleep.”

She feels Pam’s chuckle against her neck even before she hears it.

“I’m not going anywhere, Harls.”

There’s a deep sigh, but this time it comes from Harley instead. “I know.” And she does. She _knows_.

“So. Was it red?”

“Mhmm,” Harley kisses Pam’s shoulder, “wanna know what red feels like, Pammy?”

She feels Ivy nod against her neck.

“Safe.”

  
  
  



End file.
